There’s no illusion of an American dream
Yet we all come with a certain humble hope
Not to achieve the impossible
But to participate in the making of the greatness

Young and ambitious, we put behind glories from back home
We scorn at those who are content with the past, and flock to those who aspire for challenges,
believing that by working from the bottom, this foreign land will reward us with true hero-hood

Humble are we, we take up tasks that locals wouldn’t take
The romanticism of a fallen hero touches our hearts, it comforts us to know this is only mid way of an epic

Some days pass, and some comrades relinquish; some fresh faces join in, eyes bright with new hopes
As for us, the mirror reflects but a fading cry. We soon realize that the battle never exists, yet we still struggle through our armors every morning, waiting for a sign from sky.

This city, with Don Quijote as its hero.

5/30/2006